


The Club Baths Affair

by Lixiwei



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lixiwei/pseuds/Lixiwei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon enjoys the company of a beguiling young man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Club Baths Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of the only story I've ever posted, about 8 years ago on another fan site. I've been working on more; I have about 10 started but boy they sure don't write themselves, do they? Hope you enjoy--Liz

**The Club Baths Affair**

by Lixiwei

_(Our story takes place the night of September 18-19, 1964)_

Napoleon Solo opened the front door of the unassuming brownstone and stepped gratefully out of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters into the soft September evening. He glanced at his watch and frowned. Just past nine o’clock. The debriefing had taken longer than either he or Alexander Waverly had anticipated. But the mission had been a long and delicate one involving, among other things, a high-ranking member of the British aristocracy, an alarming quantity of missing plutonium, and a particularly nasty device—undoubtedly developed in one of THRUSH’s Asian laboratories—designed to encourage normally classified information to spring forth almost unbidden from a prisoner’s lips.

And of course there had been a woman.

It seemed there was always a woman, a long unending line of them. This one, a THRUSH agent, had been more intelligent than her male counterparts and not at all easy to seduce. Napoleon had had to play the role of a lifetime to coax any usable intelligence out of her. Mr. Waverly never tired of hearing about his C.E.A.’s work-related conquests during their tête-à-têtes though, to Napoleon’s great relief, he never pressed for intimate details. The entire episode—assignment, seduction, the lot—had left him a bit uncharacteristically jaded. Or perhaps he was just over-tired after a drawn-out, difficult job.

Well, no matter. The report was filed, the world was, for now at least, safe once more and Napoleon had left HQ with the next two days all to himself. He was a bit surprised he’d been given some R&R in light of the fact that his new partner, Illya Kuryakin (odd spelling, that first name—he’d only ever seen it with one L before), was due to arrive from the London office next week and Napoleon had not yet read the Russian’s dossier; but he was happy for the time off nevertheless. After this last mission his nerves were strung tight and his muscles badly needed stretching.

Luckily he knew exactly where he needed to go to rectify both situations.

* * *

By eleven-thirty Napoleon, clothed in attire less formal than his usual conservative suit and tie, arrived at his destination—a small but elegant townhouse in the East Village. The past two hours, after he’d rushed home to shower and shave, had been spent making sure he hadn’t been followed, either by a THRUSH operative or one of his own. Certain he was safe from prying eyes, he slipped quietly into the First Avenue abode. Waverly’s heart would probably stop had he any idea just how U.N.C.L.E.’s counter surveillance training was being utilized tonight, Napoleon thought wryly.

He jogged up the short flight of stairs before him and stopped at a large front desk. The attendant behind it flashed a warm grin and said, “Welcome to The Club Baths, sir.”

Napoleon returned the greeting. “How’ve you been, Jimmy?”

“Just fine thanks. Haven’t seen you here in a while, Mr. Blunt.”

Napoleon, who used the cover Anthony Blunt for his nights on the town, plucked a few bills from his wallet and gave them to the clerk replying, “Been out of the city on business. I think a dressing room tonight please, Jimmy. Four dollars, isn’t it? Oh, and here’s my watch for safekeeping as well.”

Seconds later Napoleon was handed a thick white towel and a key on an elastic band, escorted up to the second floor, and deposited in a small, windowless cubicle. Inside were a single cot dressed in fresh linen and a gym locker. Not exactly conducive to romance, but then again, romance was not why he was here.

Closing and locking the cubicle door, Napoleon removed what looked to be a small transistor radio from the inner pocket of his jacket. To this he connected a tiny earpiece and, turning the device on, expertly swept the room for listening devices. It wouldn’t do to have anyone hear what he hoped would transpire later on.

The “broom” didn’t find any bugs. Good. Next out came the Mr. Magoos. The boys in the lab had recently discovered how to grind and coat special eyeglass lenses so they could detect hidden cameras. They were Coke-bottle thick and set into the world’s ugliest frames, but those same lab boys, bless them, had given them to Napoleon out of all the other agents to field-test, and this was their maiden voyage. He chuckled; if those lab boys only knew where—and why—that first field-test was taking place…

Once he was satisfied that his little cubicle was safe from prying eyes or ears, Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief. His secret was a secret for yet another night.

Finally, time to relax.

Lowering the room’s dimmer switch, he removed the eyeglasses, disassembled the broom, and placed all carefully back in his jacket, which he hung in the locker. The rest of his clothing followed. He shut the locker door and regarded his body in the soft light. Not bad for thirty-two. True, he wasn’t seventeen anymore, but with the workouts he got both on and off the job there was still nothing on him but muscle, plus the odd scar or two compliments of THRUSH. Pleased, Napoleon tucked the towel around his waist, exited and locked his cubicle, placed the elastic band around his ankle and made his way downstairs.

* * *

The young man in the sauna clearly had eyes for Napoleon. He’d been relaxed, almost drowsing, when Solo had walked in and noticed him apart from all the others. The young man looked up easily at Napoleon for a moment. He had beautiful eyes, an exquisite face. He smiled shyly. Napoleon, smiling back, found a place on the bench opposite and began to enjoy the view.

They flirted silently for some time, passing private glances like secret signals back and forth. The young man, Napoleon noticed, had a dancer’s physique. An upper body subtly but beautifully defined, long powerful legs. Perhaps he was with the ballet. Napoleon wondered if he would have the opportunity to ask and then decided it was time to create the opportunity, were the young man willing. He looked across the space that separated them once more, eyebrows raised in unspoken question. There was no mistaking his meaning. Why of course, the young man’s eyes replied. Both rose then and walked, side by side, out of the steam.

* * *

Later, long after midnight, they lay spooned together on the narrow bed, the young man resting comfortably in Napoleon’s arms. In time his breathing slowed and deepened and, asleep now, he nestled closer. Napoleon, utterly at peace, permitted his eyes to close. His mind filled itself with images of the young man’s face and graceful body. He was a miracle, this one. An angel. Without a word spoken between them, he had accomplished what few other men had ever been able to do:  he’d erased all the unsavory details of all the unsavory missions of all Napoleon’s years as a spy. It felt so good to feel this way, if only for a while. He wished this night would never end, this beautiful creature never leave his side…

By and by the young man stirred. He awoke and looked up. When he saw Napoleon gazing down at him his sleepy eyes widened, and he turned so that they faced one another. He extended a slender finger and softly traced the line of Napoleon’s lower lip. Napoleon gently captured the finger, then kissed the hand it belonged to and regarded the face for some moments. Finally he murmured, “May I ask your name?”

The young man nodded and cast his eyes shyly downward. “Kurt,” he said quietly, looking back up.

Napoleon caught his glance and smiled. A very skilled liar, but a liar nevertheless, he thought, so then ventured, “I’d love to know your real name.”

The young man’s brows knitted together, a trace of embarrassment on his face.

“No strings.  I promise,” Napoleon said. “Just your first name.  To remember you by.”

The young man searched Napoleon’s eyes for several heartbeats before, apparently satisfied, he leaned in close. His breath felt like silk on Napoleon’s ear. The word came out in a careful whisper:

“Illya.”

One, two, three seconds passed. An eternity.

“Illya,” Napoleon said, carefully, as if hearing the name for the first time. He stared. He couldn’t help it. Could it possibly be…?

“Illya,” the young man repeated—then added, “It’s a Russian name.” With an accent to match.

“Illya,” Napoleon said again. Well, no sense putting it off; he had to find out. “That wouldn’t happen to be spelled with _two_ Ls, would it?” he asked.

The young man was visibly taken aback. “Why, yes, it would,” he answered. “But how do you know?”

The C.E.A. took a breath and said, “Illya, my name is Napoleon.”

The young man cocked a blond eyebrow but did not speak. One side of his mouth, however, curled up in amusement, and his blue eyes sparkled; the effect was quite disarming.

“Funny thing,” Napoleon went on, “my uncle’s name is Illya.”

“What a coincidence,” Illya replied. “My uncle’s name is Napoleon. He once sang…solo…with the St. Petersburg Choir.”

They studied each other silently for a moment. A broad grin slowly spread across Napoleon’s face.

“Well,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Illya.”

“And you, Napoleon. I had heard Americans were friendly. I must say that is an understatement.”

“And I’d heard Russians were as cold as ice. Obviously I was grossly misinformed. You aren’t supposed to be in the States ’til Tuesday, though…”

“I flew over a few days early. Do _you_ never go on holiday?”

“…and this place doesn’t exactly…ah…advertise. How did you find it?”

“I’m a spy,” Illya replied casually. “It’s my job to find things.” Then he shrugged. “…An American friend in London told me about it.  Napoleon,” —a hungry look— “enough talk.”

Napoleon ignored the directive. “You know,” he said teasingly, “we probably shouldn’t be doing this. It’s against regulations to date a colleague.”

“We will not be colleagues until Tuesday,” Illya retorted, moving closer. “Today is Saturday. And did I not just say enough talk?”

“Tch, tch, Illya,” Solo admonished, trying to conceal another smile, “Is that any way to speak to a Chief Enforcemen—”

Determined Russian lips stopped Napoleon mid-title. After a lengthy and tantalizing kiss, Illya drew back and regarded him sternly.

The Chief Enforcement Agent, slightly breathless, sighed, lost himself in Illya Kuryakin’s steely gaze and spoke no more. He had a feeling this was going to be a very enjoyable partnership indeed.

  
  
The End

 


End file.
